


Somewhere in V

by Zigster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Currently rated teen but will go up with future chapters, Instead he finds sin, Italian Language, John Watson is a man of many appetites and one of those is dark haired men, John's gone to Venice to find peace, M/M, Venezia | Venice, gelato
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-27 20:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15032252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: John goes on sabbatical in Venice to find some peace. Instead, he finds an appetite for gelato and dark-haired men.





	Somewhere in V

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to use a Venetian proverb as a title but I couldn't find one that worked quite right.  
> What I ended up with is (if memory serves) a chapter title stolen directly from Call Me By Your Name.  
> I'm okay with this . . . Italian summers, beautiful boys, apricot juice . . . the repetition of themes isn't really a bad thing in this case. 
> 
> I spent time in Venice as a teenager, so a lot of what's written below are my sense memories from that experience. I love the city dearly and wish I could go back daily. Writing this was a fun escapist exercise.
> 
> Thank you to @nottoolateforthegame for beta-reading and supportive encouragement. I appreciate it greatly. 
> 
> And to you, dear readers, I hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He stares at the carved beams lining the ceiling of his rental flat, located on the second floor of a sinking palazzo owned by an ancient woman with too many cats. One sits nearby, purring. It’s using a pile of his most recent writings as a perch, but he’s too preoccupied to care.  

The shimmering reflections of the lagoon below cascade over the intricately painted beams like swirling clouds of milk poured into a cup of tea. He’s transfixed by them - stoned. He raises the pipe to his lips, pulls another hit and holds in the burn, allowing it to pool in his lungs and course its way through his insides before expelling the smoke into the room in a series of translucent rings. He puffs them out one by one, smiling at the small accomplishment.

He crosses himself in jest, reciting, “ _Padre, perdonami, perché ho peccato,_ ” before breaking off into a fit of coughing laughter at the absurdity of it all. John Watson has no god. Not anymore.

The plumes swirl above his head and he falls back in the leather chair, the laughter chasing the last tendrils to the ceiling. There they twine with the forever undulating reflections of the lagoon. He watches the dance play out before him, as the Italian sun sets outside the thrown-wide balcony doors. His mirth settles with it, softening into a quiet giggle. Sinned, he most certainly has, but giving a shit about it, he most certainly does not.

 

_. . ._

 

_Two months earlier_

 

_. . ._

 

The cotton of his shirt sticks to his back in the noonday sun and the weight of the relic of a typewriter his sister insisted he lug across Europe with him slips slightly in his sweaty palm. He readjusts, pulling up the shoulder strap of his pack in the process. He’s standing on the pavement outside _Venezia Santa Lucia_ on the edge of Venice, staring out at a sea of tourists wandering in lazy circles with open mouths and open maps. He weaves past them and down a side street behind the station. There’s a sign above advertising the only youth hostel in the entire city. He ignores it; he already has an address clenched tightly in his left fist.

  
Every street sign points towards _S. Marco,_ often in opposing directions. He nods at the contradiction, enjoying the irony. The only means of transport is boat or foot, and John Watson finds that he rather likes that fact. He’s marched countless miles through an endless desert landscape, shuffling along a few ancient streets in a picturesque city will not inconvenience his hardened sensibilities.

He stops to buy a gelato, depositing a few coins into the hand of the vendor, a young man with dark hair and dark eyes who winks at him as he takes the first lick of his already melting cone. John raises an eyebrow behind his sunglasses, intrigued. He licks again, a long, slow, sweep of pink tongue lapping up the dribbling cream. The man grins. John nods, satisfied with his correct assumption, and turns to continue his walk across the square. He ignores the whistle that follows him.

It takes two hours of sweating, and circling endless alleys and crossing over several footbridges that he swears are all marked under the same name, but he finds his destination on the _Rio Madonna dell'Orto_ , suspiciously close to where he started his journey at the railway station. The entrance is located on a back street so narrow he feels the need to turn sideways as he walks. It’s a dingy place despite its archaic beauty. The stones are covered in overgrown vines and the window shutters are all latched tight. The wash hanging across the alley is coated in dust. He squints at what was at one point a white bed sheet, now yellowed. It reminds him of sandstorms and sweltering tents. He rubs his shoulder, shifts his pack and pushes the buzzer.

The woman who answers is everything John expects: an old, salty Venetian with a cat perched on one shoulder and a dishtowel slung over the other. There’s a red slash across it, but the origin is fruit based not human. John greets her in Italian but she stares back at him with a bland look; John is certain she is being purposefully obtuse. He sighs and holds out the paper in his hand. She reluctantly takes it, reads, and her face shifts. She lights up, a knowing smile pulling wide her creased lips, and ushers John inside with welcoming, arthritic hands.

 “ _Scrittore._ ”

 John nods.

“ _Studente_.”

 Nod.

 “ _Stracco_.”

 “Si.”

“Bed. Up-thee-stairs.” The old woman points to a large, wooden door laced with intricate carvings. There’s a water line slashed across it, and John notes the tell-tale mold along the plaster walls around them. Everything is damp.

 Behind the door is a stairwell. It’s flooded with light, spilling in from a floor-to-ceiling window facing the canal beyond. He halts in his steps, taking in the sight before him. It’s beautiful. Seafoam green water and soft-peach colored sky, white marbled archways and twisted spindles of carved wood framing the picture-postcard view. John can’t help but place his mammoth of a typewriter on the worn marble step beneath him and inhale a deep breath of humid air, not wanting to take such a scene for granted. Visions such as this do not exist in dreary old England.  

“ _Sprigati. Movite che_. Before you _cadere_.”

 John’s lips pull into a thin line. He nods at the woman, and continues up the stairs, leaving the sense of peace he’d momentarily found behind him.

His room is a museum. He stands in the middle of the marble floor, covered in several layers of Turkish rugs and does not move, certain the moment he touches something it will crumble to ash beneath his fingertips. The woman ushers him into a leather chair behind an ancient wooden desk. It squeaks. He pushes his damp hair off his forehead.

 They stare at each other.

“ _Mi Ciamo, signora Luna_.”

John blinks up at her, charmed. Her first name had not been written on the rental paperwork. “The moon.”

“Si.”

 He holds out his hand to her. “John Watson.” She takes his offered hand, palm side down. He grins and bows his head in greeting. “ _Piaceri di conoscerla_.”

Luna nods back with a smile that turns into a chuckle. The sound speaks of too many cigarettes, yet it warms the stale air.

“ _Bona note,_ John Watson.”

She shuffles out of his room, the white cat that had been perched on her shoulder plopping down behind her at the door. She snaps her fingers at the cat. It doesn’t move. She shrugs and shuts the door, leaving the cat inside. John regards it with a narrowed eye.

“What’s your name, then?”

The cat falls on its side, raises its back leg and proceeds to lick its own arsehole. John nods and turns away. He hates cats.

Ignoring the beast, John looks towards the Juliette balcony opposite his desk. His room does not face the alley with its depressed shuttered windows and dusty wash hanging in sad tangles; no, John’s room overlooks the canal. He pushes aside the curtain and the heavy drape exhales a layer of dust from its folds in response. It gently falls over his sweat-prickled skin as he ties back the brocade fabric with a sash. He curses and coughs while attempting to brush the dust from his shoulders but is suddenly distracted by the view he’s just revealed - it’s imperfect in the most perfect of ways and John smiles at the dichotomy of the paint-chipped boats and rotting slips mixed with the glory of the ancient city.

There’s a footbridge to his left and the church that bears the name of the canal to his right. The buildings are all the same soft peach brick, dotted here and there with a myriad of sepia tones, made all the more vivid at water level thanks to a vibrant slash of viridescent algae coating the sodden foundations. The water is a shade darker than what he’d seen of the Grand Canal earlier in his wanderings, more mysterious and less welcoming. John finds that he prefers it that way. The light reflects back towards him on every surface, shimmering over the scene before him and turning it pink with the tinted glow of the late-afternoon sun. He leans his elbows on the railing of his balcony and breathes in the salt air, listens to the gentle lapping of the water below and closes his eyes. The peace he’d found back in the stairwell steals over him once more and he’s grateful for its return.

His shoulders drop, the tension draining out of them. His head bows and his chest heaves a great sigh of contentment into the damp, Italian atmosphere surrounding him in its warm embrace. He can feel his heart rate slowing and the anxiety in his bones melting into the marble floor beneath his toes.

 The cat brushes its white fur against his ankle, searching for attention and John chuckles. The laughter comes easy, and there is no edge of sarcasm or anger laced behind it.  

 For the first time in over two years, John Watson feels relaxed.

 

. . .

 

* * *

 

Italian and Venetian translations:

 

_Padre, perdonami, perché ho peccato -_ Bless me father, for I have sinned

_Scrittore -_ writer

_Studente -_ student

_Stracco (Venetian) -_ tired

_Sprigati -_ Hurry!

_Movite che (Venetian) -_ hurry up, move it

_Cadere_ \- fall over  
_Mi Ciamo (Venetian)_ \- my name is

_Piaceri di conoscerla -_ very nice to meet you

_Bona note (Venetian)_ \- good night

* * *

 

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As always, Thank you for reading! Please leave me a comment if you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear from you. :) 


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